


you could make a life outtakes (2021)

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, YCMAL 'verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: A collection of snippets originally posted on tumblr based in the general universe presented in you could make a life and its companion series. Canon and AU within, ranging from G-rated gen to explicit.
Series: ycmal outtakes [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/335026
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	1. Willy/Owen; best intentions (pt 2)

Tate loves and respects Joey Munroe. He’s probably his favorite teammate, which is a high honor, because Tate loves all his teammates, even Shithead when he’s being particularly shithead-y. He would like all the good things in the world for him.

Sometimes Money doesn’t seem to agree. Definitely not right now, with the way he’s approaching Owen tonight. It starts out okay, Tate guesses, but it becomes very quickly evident that Money does not know how to interact with a guy he likes. He is honestly so bad at this Tate spends most of his time trying not to visibly wince. Money spends half his time just kind of mooning at Owen and forgetting to say anything so that Tate and Trigger have to carry the conversation, and the other half of the time musing about where Scratch is, because clearly he is useless without Scratch’s moral support.

Money visibly brightens when Scratch swings by the table, but it doesn’t last, Scratch weirdly curt as Money introduces him to Owen, blink and miss it before he’s gone and Money’s trailing Scratch to the bar like a confused duckling.

Tate gets Owen’s number while Scratch and Money are doing a ScratchnMoney communion at the bar. Trigger gives him a side-eye, and Tate rolls his back. There are no nefarious purposes here. Owen’s a nice guy who Tate would like to converse with. 

Also if Tate has his number Money won’t be the only Scout who can invite him out — or refuse to, as Tate thinks is more likely, particularly because Trigger’s starting to pull out some of the more embarrassing stories while Money isn’t there to screech at him to stop.

He has a wealth to choose from. Scratch and Money are very, very dumb drunks. And Tate knows dumb drunks: it’s the entire team, including himself sometimes. He got the tongue-lashing of a century when he injured Shithead right before playoffs after toppling off the bar, and he deserved every single bit of it. 

Thankfully it wasn’t nearly as bad as it initially seemed like and could have been. Shithead was raring to go when playoffs came, and in just enough pain to play pissed off, which is dangerous for the other team. A pissed off Shithead is a very motivated Shithead, Tate’s noticed. He’d never injure him intentionally, obviously, but it is a silver lining.

“Where’s Scratchy?” Trigger asks when Money gets back.

“Says he wasn’t feeling it,” Money says. “Seemed off.”

“Huh,” Trigger says, then disappears without a word and returns with a coat a few minutes later.

“Isn’t that Scratch’s coat?” Joey asks.

“Forgot it,” Trigger says with a shrug, and Money checks his phone, probably all offended Scratch didn’t personally ask him to get it. Those two are so weird sometimes. And that’s saying something considering Tate’s sitting next to Leslie ‘Trigger’ Barton, who is now wearing Scratch’s coat over his shoulders like some weird cape. Goalies, man.

“Do you want to tell the fountain story?” The Caped Crusader asks. “It’s your story after all.”

“I think the video speaks for itself,” Tate says over Money’s protests, and Trigger shoots him a sideways grin and then pulls out his phone to show Owen Scratch and Money sopping wet and drunkenly clinging to one another in the fountain.

“This is falsified evidence,” Money tells Owen desperately. “You are missing context!”

“What’s the context?” Owen asks.

“They were drunk as fuck,” Tate says “That is all the context you need.”

“I think it’s very sweet that Scratch rescued you from drowning,” Owen says, with fake solemnness completely undermined by the glint of amusement in his eyes. Tate catches them, and the solemnity slips, Owen incapable of not cracking a grin. 

Tate grins back as Money bangs his head against the table. Owen seems like a good fit, the kind of guy who won’t balk at the Scouts or Money’s particular brand of drunken idiocy. Tate hopes Joey doesn’t screw it up.


	2. Bryce, Don; patching things up

Bryce didn’t exactly think things through when he was punching through the wall.

Which like, obviously. That’s not something you think you’re about to do before you do it, that’s pure emotion. Chaz gone, Jared a thousand kilometres away, the city of Calgary fucking collectively piling on him, a locker room he’s more likely to get sneers than anything else. He wanted to break shit. He always wants to break shit right now, but that afternoon he cracked and did it.

The problem about punching a wall is it leaves a hole. Which, also obviously. But if you want to patch up that hole, you need to know what you’re doing, and Bryce doesn’t, really. He’s got hands on the ice — except not lately — but he’s not exactly handy otherwise, and he’ll probably fuck it up. And who knows when he’s moving out. Soon, if they have their way.

Jared insists on his dad doing the patch up, and Bryce gets his whole thought process — it’s probably a bad idea for someone who might know who he is coming in and seeing that hole, making assumptions, and Bryce can’t trust anyone to be discreet, not really — but on the other hand: Don’s not exactly Bryce’s biggest fan, and this is some more ammo for him, all ‘oh great my son’s husband is violent, do I have to worry about Jared’s safety with him’. Which: fuck no, but it’s not like Don knows that. 

But Bryce lets Jared ask, half expecting Don to say Bryce should like, deal with the consequences with his actions himself, but instead Don comes by with a bunch of handy looking shit. Dude’s an electrician, so obviously he knows what he’s doing. Probably has to cut open and fix plenty of walls to get to the electrical stuff.

“Brought some pasta,” Don says. “Made too much of it last night. Still kind of adjusting to Erin not eating us out of house and home every night.”

“Thanks,” Bryce says. “I um — sorry you have to do this.”

“It’s not too bad,” Don says, looking at the hole.

“Yeah?” Bryce says.

“Shouldn’t take too long,” Don says.

“Yeah, um,” Bryce says. “About the wall, you know that’s like —”

“Bryce,” Don says. “It’s fucking bullshit, the pressure they’re putting on you.”

Bryce blinks. Vaguely wonders if he’s hallucinating this.

“You’re getting piled on for no good reason and your friend got traded,” Don says. “You had a bad day. Nobody got hurt.”

“I’d literally never hit Jared I would die first,” Bryce blurts out.

“I know,” Don says. “Well, maybe on the ice.”

“Not even on the ice,” Bryce says. They’re not on the ice at the same time often, but every time they are Bryce is hyper aware of Jared’s number, and he’s not going to finish the check, he’ll back off or he’ll find someone else. They jokingly scuffle sometimes, and they’ve tussled before during training things, but in a real game? Bryce is going to swerve away. He doesn’t know if Jared’s aware of that. He could use it to his benefit if he was. “I don’t finish my checks against him.”

“Don’t tell Jared that, he’ll make it a strategy,” Don says, and Bryce smiles at the floor.

“Probably, yeah,” Bryce says.

“No friends in hockey,” Don says.

Bryce shrugs. “If he wants to take advantage he can,” he says.

“You want to heat that pasta up?” Don asks. “I’ll get to work.”

“Okay,” Bryce says.

“You got any beer?” Don asks.

“Um,” Bryce says, wonders for a second if it’s a trick question or not. “A couple. Molson?”

“Get me one of those,” Don says, and Bryce obediently gets Don one, thinks for a second, then grabs himself a Gatorade. Blue, since Jared isn’t here to hoard them for himself.

It doesn’t take too long for Don to patch the hole, though like, the way he does it without blinking when Bryce would have no idea what the hell to do confirms that Jared had the right call about calling him instead of doing it himself. Jared usually makes the right calls.

“I’ll paint it over next weekend,” Don says. “You know what paint it is?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the swatch somewhere,” Bryce says.

“Find me that, I’ll pick up the paint,” Don says.

“Okay,” Bryce says. “Thanks for this.”

Bryce particularly appreciates the not getting shit for it, which was unexpected.

“Bryce,” Don says.

“Yeah,” Bryce says, and he doesn’t know if he’s like, imagining that Don looks uncomfortable. Bryce feels uncomfortable, so maybe not.

“You know you don’t deserve any of the shit they’re saying about you,” Don says.

“I know,” Bryce says, and he does, but it’s not like that changes anything.

“You ever want to just — vent or something,” Don says. “I’m happy to listen.”

“Thanks,” Bryce says. “Maybe next weekend?”

“Pick up a few brewskies and we can make a day of it,” Don says. “I’ll bring Erin. She’s getting uppity about the university thing, she could use doing something with her hands.”

“Okay,” Bryce says. “That sounds really good.”

“Keep your head up kid,” Don says.

Bryce is trying.


	3. Jess/Jeremy; caretaking (pt 1)

“Time for a clomp,” Jeremy says.

“No,” Jess moans. “No clomping.”

“We’re clomping, Jess,” Jeremy says firmly.

Jess covers his face with one of the new throw pillows, only to have it cruelly ripped away.

“How far?” he asks.

“Just around the block,” Jeremy says. “You haven’t been outside in a literal day.”

“You haven’t either,” Jess says, which sounds like less of a good retort and more of a supporting statement now that it’s out in the world.

“Exactly,” Jeremy says.

Jess sighs and then takes Jeremy’s outstretched hands and levers himself off the couch. “I want a smoothie.”

“We can get you a smoothie,” Jeremy says, with that little smile at the side of his mouth Jess is stupidly fond of, and hands Jeremy his crutches. “We’ll go slow.”

“We better,” Jess says. Aggravating anything means dealing with Bob. And if Bob decides it’s Jess’ fault that it was aggravated, lord help him then.

It’s slow going. Which, obviously. But it’s frustrating to follow a path Jess used to jog in the mornings at the pace of an old lady.

“Oh dear,” an elderly woman says, when they step aside to let her speed walk by them, two pound weights in her hands. Jess is not insulted by this. He is not. “An unlucky duo, aren’t you?”

She’s too far to answer before Jess can think of a response. At the pace of an old lady isn’t accurate at all, he guesses.

“Slow down,” Jeremy says, as Jess thuds his way ahead.

“I’m slow,” Jess says. He’s objectively slow. He knows Jeremy slows down so Jess can keep up — needing to be careful about how much weight you put on your foot is a whole other story than not being able to do it at all. And crutches are the worst. Jess thump thump thumps ahead.

“You are not racing with a seventy-five year old woman,” Jeremy says.

“I am not,” Jess says. Because if he was, he would be very badly losing. He can’t even see her anymore.

“Let’s sit,” Jeremy says, and Jess would not like to sit, because that is admitting that he can’t even walk through a park without needing to take a break.

“You need to take a break?” Jess asks.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says.

That’s fine then. They can take a break if Jeremy needs one.

Jeremy tips his head back into the sun when they sit, lashes dark on his cheeks, and Jess looks away, grabs his sunglasses out of his pocket. Too bright out or whatever. Definitely too warm.

“Nice day,” he says inanely, and Jeremy hums agreement.

Jess leans back against the back of the bench, back against Jeremy’s outstretched arm. He pauses, considers, then leans into it. “Bench hog,” he says as he does, just to be like, chill.

“Yup,” Jeremy says, and doesn’t move his arm.


	4. Jess/Jeremy; caretaking (pt 2)

One day Jess is going to be able to cope with Jeremy in the mornings. Jeremy fluffy haired and bespectacled, Jeremy in too loose shirts and basketball shorts, Jeremy sleepy eyed and soft in a way Jess never sees after noon, all capability and poise once he’s fully woken up.

Today is not that day. Tomorrow probably will not be either.

Jess is up before him for once, and that’s notable enough that Jeremy pauses when he comes into the kitchen, like he’s trying to make sense of something.

“I made coffee,” Jess says.

“I love you,” Jeremy says fervently and Jess feigns interest in his coffee, hoping Jeremy doesn’t notice his ears have gone pink. With the amount of attention Jeremy puts in to carefully adding the correct amount of almond milk to his coffee, he probably doesn’t.

“What’re we doing today?” Jeremy says, leaning against the counter. Usually he’s the one deciding that. They’ve got like, a routine. Jeremy gets up before Jess, but not much before, just enough that Jess comes down to coffee brewing, the soft Jeremy he can’t handle, and Jeremy makes them breakfast, and then showers while Jess keeps an ear out, and then Jess showers and Jeremy keeps an ear out — that sounds creepy but like, when you’ve got a broken foot or you’re plastic bagging a cast showering is precarious and thankfully nobody’s landed on their ass yet, but the door stays unlocked and they stay close, just in case. It’s not a sexy keeping an ear out. Two dudes soaked and in pain trying to manoeuvre out of a shower without breaking themselves worse is the opposite of a sexy idea. It’s like, locker room naked, but worse.

And then, after two thankfully uneventful showers, they chill in their own respective rooms for a bit — Jess replies to emails, because his extended family really loves emails. He doesn’t know what Jeremy does, other than go from fluffy soft Jeremy to capable boss Jeremy. Then, after an hour or two, Jeremy appears in Jess’ open doorway and tells him what they’re doing that day, because Jeremy is very insistent that they have to do things. Not just the things they are obligated to do, seeing trainers and doctors and suiting up to watch the team from the press box if they’re at home, but other things, like clompy little walks, or going to a movie, or grabbing lunch out. Stuff that makes their days Structured. Jess hears that capital letter in Jeremy’s voice.

Jess appreciates it, because he probably would be staring at the walls and feeling sorry for himself all day if Jeremy didn’t insist on Structure. Jeremy came into this apartment and bought art, like actual art, and a shoe-thingy for the front hall, and kitchen utensils Jess doesn’t even know the uses of, and he brought Structure and he brought his soft eyed fluffy haired morning self and Jess doesn’t know what he’d do without him, honestly, which is a frankly terrifying thing to think about someone you’ve technically really only known for a few weeks. He’s like, mandatory. It’s scary.

“I don’t know,” Jess says, probably a little belatedly, because Jeremy’s got a cowlick sticking like, straight up, and Jess wants to touch it. “Do we need to hit up Amalie? Did I forget something?”

“Nope,” Jeremy says. “Day’s all clear. It’s nice out.”

It usually is, which is definitely a salve. If they were stuck in the middle of winter struck anywhere else, tottering around on icy streets, this recuperation would not be quite as fun. Not that it’s like, fun. Broken legs are not fun. But like. Could be worse, Jess guesses.

“Are you unsubtly suggesting a clomp?” Jess says.

Jeremy’s mouth tips up at the corner. Jess wants to like, poke it. That’s a weird urge, right? Wanting to poke someone’s smile? That’s not even ‘oh no’ in the ‘do not crush on teammates and holy shit do not crush on roommates’, that’s ‘oh no’ in the ‘you are being weird as fuck about him, Garcia, get a grip’.

“Maybe,” Jeremy says. “You want breakfast or just a smoothie?”

“Whatever you feel like doing,” Jess says, alternates between sipping coffee and helplessly watching Jeremy’s back as he makes them eggs, tag sticking out of his shirt — Jess is not going to tuck it in, it is weird how bad he wants to tuck it in — humming to himself, too low for Jess to follow the tune, the barest hint of shoulder blade, spine, hidden by the too big shirt, the vulnerable pale skin of back of his knee above the top of his walking boot. Jess is being so weird. Just look at his ass like a normal fucking person.

No, stop looking at his ass, that was a terrible idea. Go back to wanting to tuck the tag in.

“Voila,” Jeremy says, sliding Jess a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, multi-grain toast. He even thoughtfully provides a napkin.

 _Why are you perfect_ , Jess thinks helplessly.

“Your tag’s sticking out,” he says instead.


End file.
